


Innocence Eroded

by cairparavels



Category: Dream SMP Lore - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Alexis | Quackity Deserves Better, Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Death, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Duck Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Healing, Hurt Alexis | Quackity, Hurt/Comfort, Made up lore, Mentions of Schlatt, Mild Gore, Minor Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Multi, Other, Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Queerplatonic Relationships, Schlatt is very much the villain in this so if you don’t like that don’t read, Winged Alexis | Quackity, a deeper look into why quackity wakes up everyday and chooses violence, as well as made up lore, but I think quackity is already writing that and I want a healing arc, demon imagery, if i was an smp writer here’s the backstory I would give them, if you read this thank you please enjoy this character study, im not a psych major but i am a pisces, karlnapity are best friends, karlnapity as a qpr :], karlnapity but it’s quackity centric, little romance if any? idk, my own take on quackity’s dsmp character, quackity finds a purpose in life, quackity’s healing process and it’s ups and downs, sad quackity, this is in no way how alex canonically presents his character, this was gonna be corruption arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:07:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28350615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cairparavels/pseuds/cairparavels
Summary: “There’s this ringing in his head, like the bells of outer-skirt villages and their wooden gavels. Quackity wonders if every survivor of war sleeps like this: cold sweats, bad dreams, and visions of demons telling you to walk into the abyss.”orWhere sometimes you die a hero —Quackity finds that eating the heart of Schlatt might have not been the greatest idea — and sometimes you live long enough to watch yourself become the villain.
Kudos: 22





	1. God, that i were a man! (i would eat his heart in the marketplace.)

**Author's Note:**

> all characters owned by the dream smp and their respectable creators. this is a work of fiction and just me having fun and dipping my toes into the lore. if there are inaccuracies, it’s okay, i’m just having fun.
> 
> this is not a ship fic, but ships are present.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If my captain ever died I'd be right here, directing my attempt, pursuing absolution. I am not me.” — Fur Stop Caring
> 
> (Quackity feels so much shame that it eats him from the inside out.)

It’s been weeks since the funeral. Since the body was buried far away from L’Manburg and it’s citizens. It’s been weeks since Quackity has gotten any sleep; felt any peace. 

Blood doesn’t taste like copper, it tastes like rubber, putrid and warm. Sticky and left in the sun; scraping up his teeth; digging in his gums; arteries that can’t pump anymore squelch in the back of his throat and Quackity wonders how he got out of there without emptying his stomach completely.

He’s in a cave, cold but not damp. There’s a bat that visits. He’s a welcome change from the skeletons and creepers, but Quackity would still rather be alone. 

Even though his hands are dry, he can’t stop thinking of them stained red. Can’t stop thinking of his own deal made with Schlatt. Can’t stop thinking about the demand to kill Tubbo and Techno taking them with him. 

Can’t stop thinking that it’s his fault.

And now he’s got blood in his teeth, staining them red if he looks at his reflection too long. The funeral was a wicked jest, a show of pride to the dead from the living. Afterlife isn’t a thing, except it is. Because Quackity still sees him sometimes. In the walls. In the mirror.

No matter what he does, he can’t get the taste out of his mouth. Even if he takes to El Rapids and drugs his brain to the point of forgetting, it’s never enough. No high is long enough to forget his own sins.

The demon is there again. He’s got that same gruff voice that makes betrayed his trust just months ago. Those same rough hands, pushing and shoving and expressing things Quackity never thought he’d give in to. But his eyes are different. 

His horns have grown out, curled up into his face. They have impales his already-dark pupils and leave blood and gore in their wake. And he screams. He howls. It’s a sound like a wounded animal, or a grieving mother. The kind of sound that chills you to the bone. Like a tortured soul from the darkest pits of hell.

And of course that’s where Schlatt is. Quackity is sure of it. If there’s some golden scale in the sky to weigh out bad and good deeds, Schlatt could never repay his sins.

There’s blood beneath his fingernails and scratches up his walls. Schlatt calls to him in his sleep — blames him for everything. 

And worst of all: Quackity knows he’s right.


	2. Let the doors be shut upon him. (that he may play the fool nowhere but in his own house.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you see the boy I used to be, could you tell him that I'd like to find him? and if you see the shell that's left of me, could you spare him a little kindness?” — Broken
> 
> (Quackity visits New L’Manburg.)

There’s an itch he can’t scratch. It pulls to him, stills his movements from the moment he wakes up and paralyzed his throughout the morning. 

“Go,” Schlatt’s hungry voice echoes in his ear. “This is all your fault.”

Is it? Quackity’s own subconscious answers; tugs. Is it? Is it? Is it? Did I destroy the White House? Did I push when I should have let go? Did I? Did I?

Schlatt’s anger seeps through the cave walls. Even now, even after death, he is waiting for a revival. Waiting to be brought up. At the table, during a peaceful conversation. Remember me, he’s saying, but everyone has forgotten, and they have forgotten well.

Everyone except Quackity. 

He rolls around in his sheets; the wool is far too scratchy. And his blankets smell like dirt. Like iron. Like blood. 

It’s been months. L’Manburg has been blown up, Wilbur — _Wilbur_ — is dead, and all Quackity knows is shame. Guilt. He sees pieces of himself spread across the floor and they’re too sharp to pick up. 

He wants to grab them — fix himself — only his hands are too scuffed. Too bloody. Nothing feels right anymore and Quackity often wonders why he couldn’t have just blown up with L’Manburg.

At dawn, he walks aimlessly across the reassembled streets of New L’Manburg. The oak-lined docks leave the sea lost beneath, shielding innocent eyes from the memory of rubble and blood. 

Quackity’s wing bones itch. He lets them, revels in the discomfort, hopes it makes up for a few of his sins. 

He notices Tubbo — still president — at the bottom of the hill, near the border, standing at the L’mantree. He’s talking, to himself maybe. Quackity watches for a little while, wondering if he should try to apologize the boy. He lost a life in the war — a life Quackity couldn’t save. 

But he sees the juvenile ram horns, small and barely-curled, and he recoils. It’s Schlatt’s face again, like a Bloody Mary reflection, eyes gauged and teeth sharp. And he’s grabbing at Quackity, tearing into his throat. A heart for a heart. 

So he keeps walking. His wings twitch (they want to fly so badly) but Quackity knows they’ve seen better days. Feathers plucked from stress and a golden color turned a sickly yellow... he wishes he could clip them off and never see them again. He’d be better off without the weight on his shoulders. 

He stops at a treehouse, and he’s never seen it before. He can’t tell if it was erected before or after the war. He’s been in a daze since the funeral — since his act of defiance. Since his entire world was reduced to iron red. 

There’s a dance floor at its base — an honest-to-God dance floor. The different colored tiles bring a vibrancy that Quackity hasn’t seen in awhile. There’s also a small track, and upon it, a llama in a mine cart. He’s going in circles, over and over again, a never ending loop of confusion. 

Quackity relates. 

He climbs the ladder and opens the only chest he sees. He’s looking for anything that might lull his mind to sleep. Perhaps a knock-out potion or a softer blanket. An herbal tea or a boring book. Just something that will distract him from what now festers alongside his veins. 

There’s nothing, aside from a cake that is clearly labeled for someone else. Quackity turns to leave. 

Sapnap is at the opening, his black hair poking out over his white bandana. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” 

Does he remember what Quackity did? Does he remember the bloodlust? The crudeness as he stained his teeth with his fiancé’s blood? Does Sapnap still see that now? Sharp teeth and red eyes? Wings used to desecrate a grave? A man who can’t ever be forgiven? 

”Sorry,” Quackity squeezes his eyes shut, willing the torrent of thoughts away. They hum like gentle whispers against his cheeks, but they stay there, and Quackity can breathe again, even for a moment. 

”It’s okay,” Sapnap finishes his climb up and stands across from Quackity, only an inch or two taller. “I mean, I wanted it to be private property, but Karl said it should be open to the public. And since Party Park was his idea... I had to listen.” 

The tanned boy has this pink tint to his cheeks. “Who’s Karl?” Quackity asks, eyes focused on the way Sapnap’s eyes have turned moony. It’s the same naive look Quackity used to give Schlatt. Back before he drank, and yelled, and blamed Quackity for everything. 

”Oh! I didn’t realize you two haven’t met! He just sort of showed up one day. I’ve been showing him around and introducing him to people. He’s really nice. You’d like him.” 

Would he like me? Quackity wants to grit out. Would he hear every story told about me and still look me in the eye? “I’m sure I’ll see him around,” he mumbles. 

Sapnap’s fiery eyes soften into a warm glow. “Hey, Q, if you ever need someone to talk to—” 

”I’m fine,” Quackity pinches his lips together. “I promise.” He pretends he can’t see the way Sapnap is eyeing his wings, weak and waning. An outward show of his inward self. 

(When he was younger, Quackity couldn’t sleep without his wings wrapping around himself. A protective barrier from the world around him. Now he has nothing to keep the ghosts from crawling across his skin.) 

“Philza,” Sapnap says, bringing Quackity out of his thoughts. “He can help with your wings. Tommy should know where he is. Or Fundy.” 

The two kids who lost their father and brother. Perfect. Wilbur’s soothing voice gets him most days, seeps beneath his skin and settles there like a disapproving parent. Where is he now? Why does he permeate the air so heavily? Just the same as Schlatt? 

Quackity feels the echo of heavy hands on his shoulders. He can almost hear his ex-fiancés voice now. Telling him that Wilbur never liked him. That no one but Schlatt likes him. And if Schlatt is gone, who is left to care for Quackity? 

Quackity feels the burn of embarrassment push all the air from his lungs. “I have to go back,” he says, and he pushes passed the fireborn. 

He can’t hear Sapnap’s reply over the sound of his own thoughts.


End file.
